


and at that moment bound for nowhere

by questionsthemselves



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Challenge Response, Coffee Shops, Flirting, M/M, Pre-movie canon divergence, allusions to speciesism, but like a space punk one, sort of a coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-04-20 15:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsthemselves/pseuds/questionsthemselves
Summary: The cafe autodoor gives a creaky shudder, slides open with a whispery screech. And it smells…Kraglin pauses just inside, inhales long. It smells like melted chocolate, spices, the bitter whiff of caff beans underneath. It warm too, so warm against his cold skin and he slumps, lets himself soak it in.“Hey, dirtboy. Long trip?”Or, the first part in the space punk coffee shop AU no one asked for





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a challenge fic for Rookerstash's song challenge on Tumblr - the song is The Jam's A Town Called Malice, but it ended up being a lot more moody than the song because I mostly listened to Daniel Kahn and Kolars while writing it. This is set in the same universe as _drive your body into mine like a crash test car_ (set a few months after) but you don't need to have read that for this to make sense.

AND AT THAT MOMENT BOUND FOR NOWHERE

_Better stop dreaming of the quiet life, 'cause it's the one we'll never know_

_And quit running for that runaway bus 'cause those rosy days are few_

 

The electrotrain blurs past the station, blood red clouds twisting under the watercolor seep of navy skies. Bridge lights gleams off the rippling black of the water below, as the train goes up, up, rushes hissing down metal tracks. 

The windowsill bites cold into Kraglin’s chin, denting into prickly fuzz.He blinks out at the loom of the city, sinks deeper into his seat. If he relaxes his eyes, it all hazes into a steepled miasma of power, things that existed long before him and will leave their bones to glare out from the horizon long after.

It’s all too easy, to let it lull him. Time for more caff, if there’s any left in his flask. The night’s still new, after all, and if he can’t find a cheap place to stay in San Aleanter he’ll need to work the bars until he’s light-fingered enough units to afford one. 

Another bar, another night, another city. Each bursting sweet like tart berries on his tongue, until they didn’t. Scraping enough credits he can pack his bag full and move on. 

Kraglin’s so tired.

He reaches into the duffle clamped between his feet, shoves a hand inside feeling for the battered aluminum bottle. There. A shake sloshes what little sludgy liquid remains, probably only a quarter left. 

Well. Better than none. He upends it down his throat, tries not to taste it. The last undissolved grits coat his tongue, thick and bitter.

His throat hurts and he swallows, swallows again. Better not have picked up some bug off of that lot on the passage over. That’s the last thing he needs.

A horn blares, and on the overhead view screen a trickle of lime-electric letters skitter across the screen. _Half an hour, to Temsey station. Please remember to gather all your belongings, before exiting the train. All transfer chips must be inserted into the appropriate slots. Thank you for riding with San Aleanter Skytrains - go all the way with San Alea!_

Kraglin’s head thunks back against the cold metal seat back, closes his eyes. Maybe he has enough credits to stop in a cafe, one of those late night dives where he can get a fresh cup of caff. A  bowl of soup, something light that’ll stick in his stomach. There’s a handful of mealbars in his bag, but last place he stayed had come with an actual meal every night and he’s gotten used to real food. Hot food. 

Further down the car, an infant startled by the noise starts up a high-pitched warble. Of course. There’s always one. 

Their parent chitters at them harriedly, and Kraglin slouches further in his seat. Only twenty minutes. 

 

It’s cold. Not nearly as cold as the last planet he’d had the misfortune to visit, with its icy mountain winds. But chilled enough Kraglin can’t spend more than a few hours in it. Damn his desert-adapted species. 

The station squats at the edge of the rather more disreputable part of town, as stations often do. Lucky for him, that’s exactly the part Kraglin’s searching out. 

He taps his wristcomm gently, waits until the glitchy holoscreen shudders to life. A few careful touches a local map fizzes into existence and there– a cafe. Only a half a click from here, no more than a ten minute walk. 

Grey-green sludge water seeps through the cracks in his boots as he trudges along the street edge. At least it’s not raining now, and whatever precipitation San Aleanter has isn’t acidic, or poisonous, or worse. His adapter suit was barely functional, and without protection he’d be shit out of luck out here in the open.

He wades from pool of watery light, to pool of watery light. The street lamps hum faintly above but it’s strangely quiet, for a city. Oh, there’s the normal cacophony of voices and living, rising and shrieking in a constant crescendo. But most of the transportation is underground, and the streets seem dead without the hum and hiss of electrocabs and cars. 

There. Just ahead. Glowing neon red sign bracketed by dancing roses, the _Heartbreaker._ Weird-ass name, for a dull little caff shop. Owner probably thought it sounded romantic. 

Kraglin shifts the strap of his duffle higher, flexes his aching shoulder. Well. As long as the caff’s strong, and the food’s half-way edible. 

The autodoor gives a creaky shudder, slides open with a whispery screech. And it smells…

Kraglin pauses just inside, inhales long. It smells like melted chocolate, spices, the bitter whiff of caff beans underneath. It warm too, so warm against his cold skin and he slumps, lets himself soak it in. 

“Hey, dirtboy. Long trip?”

Right. The barista. Kraglin blinks his eyes back open, twists and–

_Oh_. Kraglin sucks hard at the inside of his lip.The smirking face staring back at him is blue – not dull washed-out blue like a Kree, blue like sulfur flames, like Neptune, the San Aleanter sky at night. The barista raises his eyebrow a little higher, an oh right. Kraglin had been asked a question.

“Aren’t they all?” he makes himself keep moving, toward the counter and the blue man behind it. _Yondu_ , his crooked nametape says. 

Yondu grins, showing every one of his jagged, metal-capped teeth. He’s got a chunk of metal in his scalp too, electric red, delicately etched with geometric lines. Scars hatch down the side of his face, tattoos swirling above the dark apron strap.There’s something almost… glittery, about how the light bounces off his skin. Kraglin wants to get his hands on it. 

“Not a fan then, of traveling,” Yondu leans forward, grins. 

Kraglin shakes his head, shifts foot to foot. “Gets old.”

“All them new star, new cities, new friends?” Yondu drawls the words _friends_ like he’s saying another word entirely, runs his tongue over his lip. He slides a menu forward with the tips of dirty, chipped nails. “Gonna order something, or you just gonna stand and shiver?”

Kraglin sucks his lower lip, drags his gaze down to peruse the options. Standard selection of caff beverages, a few shava-sap drinks for those without the right receptors to get much out of caff and those who just like flirting with sugar shock. 

“Hot caff ’s fine. And meat soup too, whatever y’got.”

Prices aren’t as bad as he’d expected, for a city like this. Shouldn’t be a problem to cover the bill with the credits he has left. 

“Whatever you want, dirtboy,” Yondu begins to turn towards the sprawl of machines, hesitates. Tilting his head he winks, flashes a grin sweet and dirty before sauntering back to start up the roar of the caff grinder before Kraglin can do more than blink back. And, well. 

Maybe he wasn’t the only one looking.

 

The caff tastes like shit. Not literally, which is something Kraglin would be much happier not knowing. It’s surprising, because he saw the brand they used on the bags stacked behind the counter. It’s not the best beans out there but it’s common and cheap, and not usually so bitter it’s undrinkable straight. 

Kraglin forces himself to swallow. 

“Good, huh,” Yondu says smugly, longues against the counter like a self-satisfied cat. “I’ve got a touch with the machine.”

There’s bitter grounds on Kraglin’s tongue. It had definitely been a full fresh pot, why is there grounds on his tongue? Yondu tilts his head, practically bats his eyelashes.

“’S great,” Kraglin smiles weakly. Maybe the soup will help wash the taste away. 

“Told ya,” Yondu struts back towards what must be the kitchen. “Siddown, soup’ll be out in a tic.”

 

The soup tastes moderately better than Kraglin’s still unfinished caff. Yondu lolls back against the other side side of the cut out booth, like he has nothing better to do than watch Kraglin eat. 

“You here for long, dirtboy?” 

Kraglin swallows his spoonful, says, “Til I decide to move on.” 

Yondu hums. “Well, ain’t that nice.” 

When he tilts his head, all the little piercings trailing down the shell of his ear catch and glitter in the light. 

Kraglin is absolutely coming back here tomorrow. He grabs up the chunk of roll nestled next to an glistening heap of butter. There’s no accompanying knife, so he slides his own out of his sleeve and flips it open. 

“Good with your hands, huh,” Yondu eyes it blatantly. “You handle that knife real nice. ”

Kraglin pauses. What? 

“Good enough,” he allows, cautiously.

Yondu hooks a fang over his lip.

“Y’know, you should come back to my place after my shift. Teach me a little somethin’ somethin’.” 

The dance of Yondu’s eyebrows leaves exactly no doubts as to what something he really means and–

Oh. _Oh._

Kraglin opens his mouth, closes it. Nods, probably a little too eagerly by the smirk Yondu’s giving him.

Doesn't seem to be putting him off though, and <em> fuck </em> he's hot when he looks at Kraglin like that. Gonna get to bite up those piercings, get to run his hands all over that gorgeous skin… Kraglin’s hands convulse, and before he can catch it the knife slips, slicing open a thin green line and oh _no._

 

Fuck.

Yondu stares at his hand, the slowly blossoming spill of blood. Kraglin knows what he’s seeing, the ooze that’s not blue, not yellow, not even pink-violet.

Kraglin’s only Xandarian until he’s not.

He curls his hands into fists, wraps his thumb over the cut. 

“Lemme pay,” he doesn’t look at Yondu. “Should be on my way, ‘fore it gets any later.” 

There’s a beat of silence and then a leather-clad hip settles on the edge of the table. 

“Changed your mind?” 

What? He didn't... Kraglin uncurls, glances up. Yondu pouts exaggeratedly back at him.

“Cause that’d be a shame,” he drawls, “with the rain an’ all meaning I have to close early. Could turn to a storm, ’n I can’t possibly get caught in _that._ ”

That’s… it? Suppose Yondu doesn’t exactly look like one of the native Nova either, but still. 

Kraglin shuffles in his seat, stares up at Yondu. 

“Didn’t,” he says quiet. “Didn’t change my mind. If you still want.”

Yondu rolls his eyes, reaches out and pokes Kraglin in the forehead. 

“Don’t be a idiot, dirtboy.”

He pushes himself up off the table, swiping Kraglin’s mug as he goes. “Gimme a tic to close up. You wait here an’ look cute.” 

And with that, he saunters back to the counter. Kraglin’s cheeks are flushing hot and if they flush a little hotter as Yondu bends over the counter, his back to Kraglin, to reach something underneath, well. He dares anyone to really blame him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last bonus coda, for the fic series that most likely never will be

CODA

 

The rest of the night is nothing like Kraglin imagined.

 

There’s an ominous crack, a indignant yowl of surprise from Yondu, and Kraglin freezes. Shit. That was Yondu’s back. Maybe he wasn’t quite that bendy, in spite of the lewd slur of filthy promises spilling out of his mouth. 

Or it could just be their position on the weirdly lumpy bed. Just as Dadaist a collage as the rest of his apartment, not that Kraglin was looking a gift bed in the mouth. He carefully shifts Yondu’s legs off his shoulders, settles them on the bed. 

And Yondu has feelings about that, okay, grumps and complains because _does Kraglin not wanna get laid or something._ Except Kraglin can’t even imagine not wanting that, tells him, _You’re gorgeous of course i do just let me try something first it’ll make you feel better I promise, t_ ells him to roll onto his stomach.

“So,” Yondu grunts into the blanket. “You gonna tell me your species has a magic healing dick?”

Kraglin chokes. 

“‘Cause I was gonna let you fuck me,” Yondu continues, splaying out as he squirms himself comfortably further into the rumpled covers. “Don’t need to pull that magic dick shit.” 

“What– no– that’s _not_ what I–“ Kraglin sputters, then his shoulders slump. He swings a leg over those lovely, thick blue thighs and settles himself over Yondu. “Just, here.” 

He leans forward, flexes his hands. Yondu’s muscles flex and he arches, rolling his head to the side until he can smirk pointedly at Kraglin. Well. See if he can keep smirking through this. 

Kraglin hutches forward, wraps his hands over the tops of Yondu’s shoulders, digs his thumbs in. In, up, ease up, dig in again. Yondu’s shoulders are a mass of knots and he makes a startled squeak, then immediately glare up at Kraglin. His gaze is rapidly unfocusing though as he melts back into Kraglin’s hands. 

“Feel good?” Kraglin says, and he definitely didn’t keep the smug satisfaction out of his voice but really, it’s hard to care when Yondu is making those sounds. They’re practically pornographic and every bit of flirt and pretense rapidly drains from Yondu’s body with every knead of Kraglin’s hands. 

“Told you this was gonna make you feel better,” Kraglin shifts back a little, starts working on Yondu’s lats. As if in automatic protest Yondu lifts his head a fraction off the bed, slurs out something incomprehensible and vaguely cantankerous before melting back down. 

It’s soothing, working methodically at his muscles, soothing them and feeling the warmth in Kraglin’s chest curl and settle a little more happily with every happy noise Yondu makes. 

By the time he’s worked his way down to the raggedy edge of Yondu’s underwear, Kraglin’s fairly certain the burbling wheezes Yondu’s making mean he’s asleep. 

Fuck. Not exactly where Kraglin had thought the night would go. But there’s some low drawl scratching out a melody on the radio, and Yondu weight is warm and soft, drugging, against his side. 

And maybe today is not the day when Kraglin gets to fuck him through his stupid patchy mattress, but someday he’s gonna. Maybe wake up with him the morning after, and the morning after that. Squabble about the proper ratio of caff to sugar to cream, until Kraglin could push a pout-lipped bundle of stubbornness and grudge against the ice-box and kiss him stupid. Maybe it'll be a little like he can imagine.

Maybe.


End file.
